


Kilometer Zero Proust Questionnaire

by weekendsareforwhiskey



Series: Her and Him [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mmm there's more coffee and fluff coming your way, To be honest? Never., Welcome back to this fondue pot of Shakespeare and Company goodness, Will I ever properly tag things?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 07:23:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weekendsareforwhiskey/pseuds/weekendsareforwhiskey
Summary: There are thirty questions on the Kilometer Zero Proust Questionnaire.Sansa intends on getting an answer to every single one of them.Petyr intends on making it last as long as possible.And as infuriating as possible.





	Kilometer Zero Proust Questionnaire

**2019**

 

_1\. 2. 3. 4._

“What is your present state of mind?”

“Annoyed.”

“Stop it. You’re the one who decided on having this questionnaire.”

“To get people to have a conversation, stay off of their phones, or find inspiration. Not for someone to turn around and ask me.”

The café is noisy. All eight of the tables occupied. Couples and groups of twos and threes. People read at the window, the sun providing natural light enough that none of the overhead lamps are even necessary. Petyr leans against the back counter. Pale, sand-colored wood with black streaks running through it; looking older and more weathered than it really is. While he sips at a double shot of espresso, Sansa reorganizes underneath the front counter. The original beginning of her questioning based off of moving a stack of their Kilometer Zero Proust Questionnaire snack mats. Her apron is slowly coming untied. He notices the last bit of fabric coming out of the bow near her lower back. The grey stands out against her yellow cotton shirt. She’s all done organizing and stands up to make her own coffee. A snack mat still in her hand that she reads from.  

“What is your favorite way to spend your time?”

“Like this,” he says as he makes a grab at her waist.

“Not in the café Petyr,” she admonishes with a smile. “We barely ever get to work together and you want to give Margaery a reason to keep it that way?”

“Your apron’s loose.” He successfully pulls her closer to him by the apron tie and reworks it into a tighter bow. “There. That’s all I wanted.” He pats the bow softly, but his hand travels further south for an affectionate squeeze.

She shakes her head but turns and kisses his cheek, rough with the beginnings of a beard addition to his new mustache. “Sleazy tease. Speaking of,” she adds with a glance at the second question, “if you were an animal, which one would you be?”

“Why do _I_ have to answer all of the questions? That hardly seems fair when there are thirty of them.”

“Fine. I’ll answer this one. I would be a bird. Personally, I think you would be a cat.”

He’s affronted at the situation. “And how is that?”

With a rag in hand, she wipes at a clear teapot and thinks it over. “Well, you love sunny days and going to lay out in it. You enjoy spending most of your time in bed. You’re extremely clever and pretty sneaky like a cat.” She laughs when he smirks but continues anyway. “And finally you’re very particular about who gets your affection and who you give yours too as well.”

“Hmm, I suppose I am a cat then.” Then he pounces on her, his arms around her waist again, a quick kiss on the lips before she can break away. “And I’ve captured such a darling little bird.”

“Margaery’s going to walk in here and you’re going to _lose_ this little bird. Next. What book makes you want to live in a different era?”

“Oh come on Sansa. We don’t need this questionnaire to have a conversation.”

“What book makes you want to live in another era?” She repeats and turns her back to the door with her arms crossed. Her annoyance with him always makes him smile. He never stops smiling around her. Until the bell above the door rings and someone walks in to ruin their fun. 

“ _Bonjour_ ,” Petyr greets a guest that walks up behind Sansa, using the transaction as an excuse. But it doesn’t take long and while she’s brewing the drink order she continues on as though no one has interrupted her little game.

“Well?”

“ _On the Origin of Species_ ,” he replies with a sigh.

“The Victorian Era is the era you want to live in? Should I be worried?”

“Hold your judgment Sansa. You aren’t even allowing for discussion of the answers. You’re just trying to speed through them.”

“I didn’t realize there were rules to the questionnaire.”

With that, she walks outside to deliver the coffee to the guest. Petyr watches her go in a daze. Two months into her new life in Paris. _Their_ new life in Paris. Days spent doing any number of things. From working shifts together or going to book readings or walking and talking and exploring new and old places of intrigue or just lying in bed all day. Together. He doesn’t always get to spend every day with her, even if he’d like to. With Margaery in charge of scheduling he hardly ever gets shifts with Sansa for the very reason that they’re unbearable when they’re together. And he supposes it may not be conducive to a relationship or a working environment for them to be together all the time. Or at least that’s Margaery’s excuse. He wouldn’t mind spending every waking moment with Sansa.

He watches her wave at someone in the courtyard that he can’t see, probably Theon. She picks up empty dishes from the tables outside and makes her way back into the café. He figures he should help as well, instead of daydreaming about what he’d rather be doing with her, and clears a table that a book club has just begun vacating.

“Oh thank you,” one of the women says to him then turns to Sansa as she enters. “Sansa, darling, when will you join us? We need some fresh new opinions.”

“When I brush up on my Byron I will. I promise you Carla. I’m still getting used to it here.”

“Oh _pfft_ you’ll be fine. The romantics are nothing and we’ll help you practice your French.”

Petyr smiles at the conversation, at how Sansa has charmed so many regulars and strangers alike.

“It’s this boy isn’t it,” another one of the women says with a pat on Petyr’s back. “He’s keeping you all to himself?” Her French accent is as thick as the glasses she has perched on her nose. They magnify her eyes so her wink in his direction is even more pronounced.

“ _Oui, c’est moi_ ,” he plays along with her teasing.

“ _Ces_ _écrivains_ ,” Sansa shakes her head in mock exasperation. Her accent still reeks of the United States, but it’s developing. “ _Ne peut pas vivre avec eux ne peut pas vivre sans eux_.”

Petyr sidesteps the other women of the book club and returns behind the counter to sort out the dishes. He chuckles when, once again, the conversation turns to the women trying to convince her that men aren’t worth the trouble they cause. There are others in life who can give exactly what a man gives and better. She nods and smiles at their jokes and japes and then walks them out to the street and waves goodbye, her apron bow coming untied in the breeze outside.

The dishes are all clean by the time she comes back in. More tables emptying around them as the late afternoon lull hits. She joins him behind the counter and hugs him, breathing him into her lungs.

“ _Je t’aime_ ,” she murmurs when his arms wrap around her. 

“ _Je t’aime aussi_ ,” he replies with a kiss on her head. His hands find their way to her lower back again. “This apron though…”

“It’s a good excuse for you to break Margaery’s rules.”

“Too true,” he says when he’s finished retying her bow. His fingers pull it together but he doesn’t double knot it. He wants another excuse to touch her again. “Is that too tight?”

She shakes her head and pulls out of his embrace “Now tell me about why Charles Darwin makes you want to live in the god-awful Victorian Era.”

 

_5_

“What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever eaten?”

“Mmm, I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

They’re eating in the kitchen of the Tumbleweed Hotel. Dickens sits in his lap and he pets him absentmindedly while he digs into the Mediterranean he picked up before meeting Sansa for her break. Her hair is up for the day, a bandana holding up the hair that seems to be growing abnormally slow. He misses the length she had when he first met her but he’ll never tell her. She’s bundled up for the fall breeze with her own green sweater that he got her as an early birthday present. Overalls draped on one shoulder, the other strap hanging unbuttoned.

“Well, it’s number five on the questionnaire,” she replies matter-of-factly and takes a huge bite of food.

He rolls his eyes. “I thought you’d given up on that?”

She narrows her eyes at him for answering so quickly and takes her time chewing. “We’re only five questions in. I’m not giving up that easily Petyr.”

Whether it’s because of how much he loves her or how much he fears her when her eyes narrow like they do in that moment, he answers. “I tried some weird things when I went to China.”

There’s a clatter when her spoon drops from her hand to the table, rice falling to the floor that Dickens scrambles out of Petyr’s lap to catch. He laughs at her astonishment and her frustration as she tries to shoo Dickens away.

“Just let him eat it.”

“He shouldn’t eat people food!” But the cause is lost and after Dickens vacuums the scraps up, he jumps back into Petyr’s lap. Sansa huffs and goes to the sink to wash her hands. The water is freezing when it first comes out and she hops back comically. “When did you visit China?”

“I met a guy at university who was going for a debate team competition and he let me stay in his room for free.” The memories of his school days are mixed. He wrinkles his nose trying to set the bad ones aside.

“ _What_? How awesome is that?”

“Mmm, not the best,” he chuckles. “It would have been, but the rooms our university had gotten their team were in shitty apartments. We left our door unlocked and someone came in and stole our passports. This, of course, happened after one of his debate buddies tried to hop over a fence and ended up getting a spike through his stomach.”

Sansa’s hand flies to her mouth when she sits again, legs up and crossed on the wooden chair. “Oh my _god_.”

“Yeah I spent a night with him in a hospital watching him get sewn up,” he chuckles again when he sees Sansa winces. His hand reaches over to squeeze hers. “But none of that is about the food we ate. Sorry for the stomach-churning over lunch.”

“No, no don’t worry about that. My stomach’s pretty strong. And I love hearing about your adventures. You never told me about your time in school.”

“Because it was so long ago.”

“Not _that_ long ago,” she replies with a shake of her head. “But go on. What was the weird food you had?”

“I can’t actually remember the name of it. But it was from a street vendor of course.”

“Oh of course,” she rolls her eyes at his tone. “You and your European tourist stomach. You couldn’t handle anything spicy.”

“This was also _not_ in the touristy area,” he huffs with pride. Her tongue darts out and he winks. “We were too _adventurous_ for those safe choices. How dare you think I can’t handle spice. The guys I was with ate almost any kind of meat covered in spice or garlic. I was a little pickier.”

“Mmm, how very overly _masculine_ of them.” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “But what did you eat that was crazy?”

“Well I wouldn’t call it eating because it didn’t end up in my stomach, but we tried tuna eyeballs.”

“Tuna _eyeballs_?” 

“It’s got fish fat and muscles around it. Honestly, it almost made me a vegetarian.” He drops his own fork on his plate. “Like I said, I didn’t finish it. It was too much like squid for my liking.” He rounds the table to clear their plates and they clatter in the sink as he starts washing them. 

“And they were _eyeballs._ Well, I mean to each their own I suppose, I can’t imagine finishing it either though.” She grimaces and stretches out in her chair. The wood creaks as her back cracks. “Oh god, that felt good. You know, for some reason I can’t imagine you in days in college. Longer or short hair?”

Her footsteps are quiet enough that when she gets up to sneak behind him he doesn’t hear her.

“Longer. An unmanageable curly mess truly. And I’m much less pretentious now.”

“Ha! I can’t believe that at all.” He’s just finished one dish when her arms wrap around his waist. The pleasant weight of her head on his shoulder distracts him enough to turn the water on too hot. When he jumps back she laughs. “I don’t want to go back to work.”

“I’m sure Dickens is up for a trip down to the store." He leans back into her touch. The warmth of her body around him. "With all that rice and tzatziki sauce energizing him? He could bring down a resignation letter.”

“Fifteen minutes’ notice is probably highly frowned upon Petyr.”

His pulse beats under her lips so he turns to meet hers with his own. His unshaven cheek scratches against her skin, reminding him he _needs_ to shave. She ignores the burn for the moment as he disregards the plates in the sink.

“Fifteen minutes you say?” He asks casually and lifts her up. Sansa’s shocked laughter is met with excited yaps from Dickens that follow them down the hallway to her room. They're cut off when Petyr kicks the door closed, leaving Dickens to whine on the landing. 

 

 

6

“I think we should go. This play is awful.”

“I think we should stay. And in the meantime…What is your favorite journey?”

He’s puzzled for a moment and then she pulls out a piece of paper and he understands immediately. “Do you just have these memorized now?”

“I have the next ten memorized. But I’ve been carrying around a copy too.”

The brown paper is folded up and a bit crinkled, but she tucks it back into her dress pocket before he can take it away from her. Not that it would matter really. She’d just get another copy during her next shift. He pulls at the knot of his tie in irritation. The lowlight of the theatre is heightened for the intermission. Many people who have left the audience don’t seem to be intending to come back. Petyr wishes they were leaving as well. The show was supposed to be a special night out on their joint night off together. But while the theatre itself is gold and ornate with plush red velvet seats and luxurious carpet...It doesn't cover up that the production is poor and the first two acts were a nightmare to sit through. 

“I answered the last one you get to answer this one.”

“Well…I think you need to answer it because you’re being so impatient.”

“If an intermission is 15 minutes, then the third act starts again 15 minutes later. Not this _veuillez excuser le_ delay. _Le spectacle commencera dans 10 minutes_. Besides it’s an awful adaptation and I still think we should leave.”

“So maybe _this_ is your _least_ favorite journey.” She smirks behind her program.

He ducks close and kisses her cheek. “Never.”

“Mmm. You’re intolerable.” She blushes and he kisses her cheek again. His lips warm and soft against the heat. He pulls away only to move down her neck. “Petyr… _Arrêtez_.”

The program makes contact with his lips before he can kiss hers again. There’s a giggle behind him and he turns to see two children laughing at the scene they make. Petyr turns back to the stage with a huge smile.

“They think I’m funny.”

Sansa shakes her head, hair falling from her artfully twisted bun. “They probably think the play is  _funny_ too. Such good company you're in." Her eyebrow raises. "You’re deflecting with affection. You haven’t answered the question. Once again.”

“I said _you_ have to answer,” he says and tucks the stray red around her ear, tempted to bring the whole mess of hair free of its confines. But she spent so much time perfecting it that he’d feel bad pushing her. She shivers under his touch and glares when he smirks.

“I don’t _want_ to answer. I want _you_ to answer.”

“Well what do _you_ mean by journey? Do you mean a trip say… from point A?” He trails his finger down her bare shoulders, along the dress’s neckline to her collarbone, continuing along her side until he taps her hip. The ice blue satin and tulle of her skirt isn’t enough to keep her from feeling the weight of his touch and he knows that. “To point B?”

“It’s whatever you had in mind when you made the sheet.” Their row may only include them now, but she is extremely mindful of the various people scattered around the rows in front of and behind them. Specifically the two giggling children behind them. “Are you thinking of a mental journey or a more physical journey?”

“A physical one of course,” he murmurs. The lights in the lobby flash and any of the stragglers must choose between leaving or returning.

“You know, I think you’re right.” She stands up abruptly and takes his hand in hers. “We should go.”

He pulls her back with a smile so villainous she feels her stomach clench at whatever he has in mind. “No, _you’re_ right we should stay. Maybe the second act will be more entertaining.”

The velvet seat meets her bare upper back again as she sits down with a sigh. The house lights dim completely and the curtain rises again with less than enthusiastic applause. As Sansa and Petyr finish clapping he places his arm around her. His fingertips tracing mindlessly on her shoulder.

“ _S'il vous plaît vous calmer_ ,” she whispers from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes don’t leave the pitiful actors on stage even if she wishes they were a little more interesting. 

His mouth is by her ear. “Calm myself?” He teases then lightly pinches the skin above her collarbone, immediately soothing the spot with a feather-light caress.

“I meant _behave_.” She tries to shrug him off but he brings his other hand to her lap to stop her.

“Ah,” he murmurs. “Well, I can’t do that. I’m just innocently _journeying_.”

“ _Petyr_.”

And he does behave, besides the constant touching. He doesn’t remove his arm from around her, still lighting caressing every part he can reach. The hand in her lap evades hers, continuing to brush back and forth along the satin. The tulle underneath shifts with his touch. Its soft thrush against her thigh the only sound in their row aside from the actors onstage. She tries not to squirm but his touch combined with the roughness of the fabric elicits the response he wants and he refuses to let her cross her legs. The third act continues with a dialogue between two characters that drones on. There’s no emotion. It’s dry without passion of any kind behind the memorized script. The exact opposite of how he’s attempting to make her feel. The exact opposite of how he’s _succeeding_ in making her feel. He leans closer to her, his arm still wrapped around her, the other moving to the center of her lap.

His mouth goes to her ear. He kisses the lobe before beginning to whisper the words in the way one of the actors is _supposed_ to be saying.

“ _Petyr stop please_ ,” she whispers but continues to tilt her head towards him. She lost the battle the second he sat her back down.

His lips retreat lower until he hears another giggle. A quick _shh_ follows but it’s enough to remind him to slow down a little bit. He gently nips her shoulder, making her jump, then turns his head back to the stage completely.

She almost sighs in relief before his hand in her lap pulls at the middle of her dress, edging the skirt up an inch. Her hand snaps onto his and holds on tight, a small back and forth movement of her head insisting _no_. It’s in that moment when his hand has successfully lifted the center of her skirt up in an attempt to take away any modesty she attempts to display, that an actor falls into the orchestra pit.

“ _Oh my god_!” Sansa cries and she’s not the only one who expresses a gasp or exclamation of shock.

Stagehands in black rush out from backstage as the actors dip their heads over calling to the misfortunate soul in the deepest part of the theatre.

“Someone must have said the M word,” Petyr smirks. "They probably should have just extended that intermission indefinitely."

“That actor could be severely hurt and you’re cracking theatre jokes?” Sansa huffs. 

“He probably did it to himself. It was an act of pity for the rest of the cast. Or a selfish act of-” He’s cut off by the house lights coming up and an announcer discussing how the audience must exit the building and the box office will be handing out partial refunds or rainchecks. " _Now_ they become quick and efficient."

Petyr stands and holds his hand out to Sansa. With the lights on he can see just how flushed her cheeks are and how much he's affected her. She ignores his hand in favor of straightening out the wrinkles he’s made in the front of her dress and turns to exit on the other side of the row. He chuckles and wraps his arm around her waist. “Don’t be cross with me Sansa. Please?”

A kiss on her cheek barely thaws her mask of indifference but she doesn't brush his arm aside. They walk out into the lobby to join the queue of people retrieving their coats. He rubs her back as they wait in line but doesn't dare say another word while she's silent beside him. 

“Would you like to wait for a refund?” He asks once they’ve gotten their coats. There's slight regret in his tone, the worry that he went too far. Either with the teasing game inside of the theatre or his joking. 

“Absolutely not.”

They’re outside brushing past the sidewalk full of people discussing refunds with harried box office employees when she sets off at a brisker pace than usual. Her heels click on the cement beneath them and he rushes to keep up with her so she doesn’t yank his arm off. They pass by the entrance leading to the underground but she passes by without a second glance and then he realizes that she's not entirely  _angry_ at him. Just determined.  

"Stop being smug," she whispers when his back's against a grimy alleyway wall a couple of blocks away.

"Never."

It's not the best of locations, but when his mouth meets hers, fulfilling the hunger he incited in her she finds that she doesn't quite care that much anymore. She was fully intending to be patient enough for the journey home, but they both find that _six_ Metro stops would have just been too long of a wait.  

"You never said what your favorite journey was," she sighs. 

His face is buried in hair that he's finally released from the ridiculous bun when he replies, "This one. Definitely this one." 

**Author's Note:**

> I cheated a bit since 1, 2, 3, and 4 I wrote a long time ago and published on Tumblr thinking I'd never make a version on Ao3.  
> But lo and behold here I am with a sequel to Shakespeare and Co.  
> As always, updates will be sporadic. I will never make promises that I can keep.


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